


Countess and Knave

by ConvenientAlias



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Crossdressing, F/F, Il Muto, Kinktober 2017, Theatrical Metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2019-01-10 07:11:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12293997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConvenientAlias/pseuds/ConvenientAlias
Summary: After the falling of the chandelier, Christine is recast as Countess in Il Muto, leaving Carlotta in the role of Serafimo. She doesn't think she's meant for the part. Christine disagrees.





	Countess and Knave

Carlotta knew the _Il Muto_ fiasco wasn’t Christine’s fault, really. She had been as frightened as anyone when Buquet’s body fell from the rafters, and absolutely terrified at the falling of the chandelier. And logically, Christine Daae didn’t actually want to steal Carlotta’s part. Carlotta was only being paranoid, and Piangi had told her time and time again. Christine was a humble girl who took what she got gratefully, and on receiving the Countess role she had been less pleased than one might be on receiving a major part.

(She did know all the songs, even better than Carlotta’s understudy, but Carlotta would let that slide. Hating Christine was not important right now. There were enough troubles already at hand.)

That said, whether Christine wished it or not, the Countess role was now definitively hers. Tragic accidents or no, _Il Muto_ still had a run of a couple more weeks, and to cancel it would mean a huge loss of money for the opera house. Two people had died in the chandelier’s falling, and five more had been injured, but there were still tons of patrons, more than even before the accident, who now wanted to see _Il Muto_ as much as ever, and the managers cared more for money than for propriety. The show had to go on. And now Christine was the Countess, and Carlotta, as a result, was Serafimo.

All the costumes had to be refitted. And the costume department did their best but in Carlotta’s opinion, their best wasn’t enough.

“Disgusting,” she muttered. “A toad—that is what he said I was, and that is what I will look like! Good lord, that I, La Carlotta, should be so disgraced.”

Well, perhaps it wasn’t a mutter. Perhaps it was more of a high pitched moan with full projection. But Carlotta was a diva, and even in the depths of despair she had to remain at her theatrical best. For once, though, she didn’t intend anyone to hear the complaint. She was alone in her dressing room, and complaining to no one but her own mirror.

But a voice answered her. “Please don’t be so upset, prima donna.”

Carlotta started. The voice was indubitably that of Christine Daae, but it seemed to come from the walls. “Miss Daae? Have you become a phantom now as well?” Two ghosts, then. Just what she needed—and if that was the case, she would forget to be so kind in her thoughts to Christine, who perhaps was malicious after all. There was something scheming about her…

“I am in the hall,” Christine said. “I came to talk to you. Will you let me in?”

Of course. She was just outside the door, and Carlotta had been about to wax hysterical. Her nerves lately were fraying worse every day. Sometimes she was tempted to drink or use a little laudanum to calm herself but such vices were not good for the voice or the spirit of a singer, and she had to stay perfectly aware with things as they were, ready for anything, ready for the day the opera ghost would come, not for a backstage worker or a chandelier, but for her, the one he despised the most.

She took a deep breath and let it out. Christine was harmless. She went and answered the door.

Christine was still wearing her Countess costume just as Carlotta was wearing her Serafimo costume. Rehearsal had been only a short time ago.

“You seemed upset during rehearsal too,” Christine said. “I thought I’d see what was the matter.” She hesitantly stepped inside. Carlotta waved her in carelessly. Her dressing room was not a private place to her as it was to some. She had welcomed far too many patrons and sycophants here for that, though Christine had never come before. It was unlike her to worry about Carlotta. In the past, she had always kept herself separate from the scenes Carlotta created, and Carlotta would see her from a distance, looking on with a distant look of condescension. It drove Carlotta mad.

(But surely Christine had nothing against her. It was her own imagination. She just needed to calm down.)

“I did not want him to threaten you,” Christine said. Her hands were clasped together at her waist. “If there is anything I can do to help…”

“If you think I am intimidated by some prankster then you are wrong.”

“Oh.”

Probably she knew Carlotta was lying. But Carlotta became a diva in the first place through acts of bravado, and she happened to know she could be very good at them.

She tossed her head. “It’s this outfit that bothers me.”

Christine stared for a moment, then cleared her throat. “I’m sorry. What’s wrong with it?”

“Everything!” Carlotta flapped a hand down at herself in frustration. And that was accurate enough. It was too tight, and it hit her in awkward places. She hadn’t played a trousers role in years, and since the last time she had gained a significant amount of weight. She had curves around her hips and breasts that could never be mistaken for masculine even if her clothing were much looser and even with her breasts compressed as much as she could manage. She didn’t look like a man, she looked like a floozy trying to play a man. And while that might be the truth of the matter (she had given up long ago pretending she was less than easy), opera wasn’t made for truth, but illusion. The audience was supposed to both remember and forget her femininity at the same time, not be constantly reminded of it.

She summarized, “I don’t look like a boy.”

“If you keep to masculine posture, the audience will forget about that. You are a good actress,” Christine said. “And your makeup really does help.” She reached out a hand as if to touch Carlotta’s face and then jerked it away, remembering herself. “You look like a stout man, but a man.”

Carlotta hmphed. “I am supposed to be a boy. A page boy, remember? He’s supposed to be the Countess’s youthful love.” And the times she could play the part of a young lad were far gone. “There’s nothing boyish about…this.”

Christine said, “I think we have a different dynamic.”

“Ah?”

“When you’re the Countess and I’m Serafimo, the Countess is imperious. She is tired of her husband’s rules and his dullness. She likes the page boy because he is fresh and young and different, and he worships her for her beauty and authority.” Christine sounded wistful. Surely she did not see any true depth in the role of Serafimo, a mockery of a part for any singer. But she continued. “When I am the Countess and you are Serafimo, the Countess is just petty. She thinks her husband is dull but also weak. Serafimo is her age or perhaps a bit older, but he is more charming than the Count, more interesting and adventurous. He has more a touch of boldness and decisiveness than of innocence, but that is what I…that is what my Countess prefers.”

Carlotta arched an eyebrow.

Christine flushed. “That is how I interpret it, at least. I am no director.” She folded her hands again. “I like both roles to tell the truth. I did not expect to act opposite you.”

“So now Serafimo is not a cheeky youth but a bold and experienced man.”

“My Countess likes experience. She just hates the way her husband treats her. He is much too smothering, and he does not care for her or regard her well. He wants to own her—he sees her loveliness as something that is beyond him, but he will take it, and keep on taking until he ruins her or kills her. All she wants is some escape from him, but he is everywhere, even when she tries to run away or closes her eyes or…”

Christine had turned white and was breathing much too fast.

“Do you want some water?”

She smiled weakly. “I am fine.”

So now there were two liars in the room.

Carlotta shook her head. “You make the Countess sound like quite a victim. But she has all the power over her husband that she needs, and he cannot make her do anything.”

Christine laughed, a little too breathily. “See? It is only Serafimo who thinks like that. That’s why she loves him—the Countess, I mean. He sees her as a force instead of a victim. Everyone else only sees her as an object.”

“And do you approve of her decision?”

Christine stared at Carlotta.

Carlotta crossed her arms. “Your Countess thinks very highly of Serafimo. But if you look at the script he’s a very stupid sort of man, and she risks everything for him. Wouldn’t that be foolish?”

“The stupidity is that she brings Serafimo into risk as well,” Christine said. “It would have been better for her to stay with her husband and stay alone.”

Carlotta stepped closer. Taking Christine’s arm, she said, “You’re trembling. Is being the lead more stressful than you had predicted?”

“I did not want to be the lead.”

“Sit down,” Carlott said. She pulled Christine over to the dressing table. “You really must drink some water. A diva must protect her health.”

Christine accepted a cup of water and drank it down automatically. She tried to stand and Carlotta pushed her back down. Obedient, she remained seated.

“You treat Serafimo like a victim as well,” Carlotta said after a while. “He knew what he was getting into. Do you think he cares about the Countess’s husband, no matter his rank? Only cowards try to force love through their power, or by claiming it as a right.” She smirked. “Serafimo took the Countess as a lover because he likes taking what doesn’t belong to him. He is a wicked man, Christine, a knave—I am surprised you can forget that.”

“But he loves her,” Christine protested.

Carlotta rolled her eyes. “Love can be many things.”

There was a moment of silence.

Carlotta wondered if she could possibly be wrong in how she was interpreting Christine’s words. There was always the risk, after all. “Do you think of your Vicomte as your Serafimo, Miss Daae? He is charming, after all.”

Christine flushed. “Please. Raoul is a very good friend. He is not charming. Besides, when I am onstage, I only think of the audience, and of my fellow actors.”

“And not your lover in the audience?”

“I have no lover.”

There were many ways to say such a statement. Most often it might be stated with a type of dejection, a downfallen gaze, maybe a little ruefulness. Or perhaps with a self deprecating laugh, as if the speaker were flattered by the assumption but had to correct it. Or maybe even with a touch of offense for one’s purity, as might be expected of an innocent ingénue.

Christine said it with her chin thrust out and her eyes fixed on Carlotta, boldly meeting her gaze. A challenge.

Carlotta had guessed right.

She smiled a catlike smile. “Would you like one?”

Christine’s boldness faded and she stared at Carlotta. “I knew,” she said quietly. “I knew I saw you looking at me…even when you said you hated me you kept on…”

“Do I need to repeat my offer?”

“No,” Christine said. “I mean, yes. I would like a lover. I would like you to be my lover very much.”

She stood up and taking Carlotta’s shoulders in her hands, imprinted a decisive kiss on her lips.

Carlotta laughed as she leaned away. “My my, Countess.” But before Christine could get shy again, she took her by the waist and kissed her again, more carefully and slowly, making sensual what coming from Christine had been a simple declaration.

Christine gasped for breath when they parted. Smiling a little wildly, she said, “Have we gone mad?”

“If you recant now, your Serafimo will be bereft,” Carlotta said softly.

Christine shook her head. “No…no…” She took a step back. “But I must clear my head. We should talk…later.”

Perhaps she had never kissed a woman before. “Very well,” Carlotta said. “Go and practice your part. You play the Countess well enough, but some of your lines are still weak.”

Christine waved and hesitantly stumbled to the door. Pausing there, she said, “Are you really worried about your outfit?”

“And would you call me a liar?”

“No, of course not. But. It’s true you do look a bit like a woman still. But that’s what makes it exciting. You look like both a woman and a man at once. It’s that awareness that makes you such an interesting Serafimo.”

With that, she parted.

So as Carlotta had thought, she really did look like a floozy pretending to be a man. She snorted. Well, if that was what turned Christine on, she wouldn’t be the first. Perhaps the audience would appreciate the show of it: a great and experienced star like Carlotta, renowned for her carnality, and an innocent new diva like Christine, still so pure, playing a game of forbidden love. They would like to picture Carlotta and Christine really kissing instead of miming it, and never imagine the truth. How funny, to know something the public could only dream of.

And for the first time since the falling of the chandelier, Carlotta found she was actually looking forward to the next performance of _Il Muto_.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for Day Seven of Kinktober, for the cross-dressing theme. However, since it's the first fic I've written that has Carlotta and Christine getting together instead of already being in an established relationship, it veered a little away from that point. I'm not sure it fits the prompt anymore...but I like this fic much better as a result. Also it's been a while since I've written extensive meta for an opera that doesn't actually exist, but it's still really fun. And kind of tricky but still fun.  
> Anyways, if you've been wanting a Christine/Carlotta fic that is a) about their getting together, b) about the Serafimo/Countess dynamic and c) completely overshadowed by faux-literary metaphors, I have two things to tell you:  
> 1\. You are literally me.  
> 2\. I hope you enjoyed this fic. It is for you.  
> Comments and kudos as always are much appreciated, or come talk to me on tumblr at convenientalias.


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